


Fallen Cold and Dead

by rivlee



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nasir has one final task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen Cold and Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _O Captain! My Captain!_ by Walt Whitman

Nasir’s life over the past two years was a series of defining moments. From the liberation of his villa; to his attempt on Spartacus’ life; to turning hands meant to entice into those that wielded sword; from finding love in an uncertain time to finding friendship in unexpected places; he’d managed to find and define himself amidst blood, joy, love, and death. 

The man who had started that revolution was dead and Nasir, with Sibyl at his side, was dragging his body through the woods almost like Spartacus and Mira had once done for him. Spartacus would not wake up from hazy fever dreams. There would be no sword at side to cauterize wound. With his life gone, the last gasp of the rebellion turned into a death wail. It was all over now. 

Rome could not have him though; they _would_ not. They would not take body of the man once called Spartacus and desecrate and parade it around to show their triumph. This would be Nasir’s last act of defiance, possibly of his life, and he would gladly die to see Spartacus finally, completely free of Rome’s grasp. 

“Where do we go?” Sibyl asked. Her voice no longer held tremor of fear or uncertainty. She had learned that there was little time to indulge such things with Rome and its dogs of war forever breathing down their necks. 

“To the cliffs,” Nasir said. 

There was no time for proper burial rites. They could not build a pyre or bury Spartacus, so his body would be cast to the waves. Maybe, one day, be it through the belly of a sea monster or by the will of Zephyrus and Neptune, part him would return to Thracian lands. 

The roar of the battle echoed behind them; the smell of fire fierce as it burned through the trees and choked the air with its smoke. They were running out of time, but Nasir could taste the salt from the sea on his lips. 

He told himself it was the sea’s wind and not tears that fell from his eyes. Sibyl was kind enough to keep herself from comment. 

Braying hounds and clashing of iron behind, roar of wind and waves ahead, and the two of them struggling to carry the weight of the taller, heavier man. And yet, it was a burden gladly borne. So much and so many had been lost in the pursuit of this foolish dream. There was no other way for it to end. Death was its own gift for spirits such as them. 

“We near the end,” Sibyl said. 

He did not know if she meant the cliffs or their lives. He did not care to ask for clarification. They were finally there, pebbles and dust kicking up around them, as if the very gods of the earth and air roared at their task. 

_The gods show fucking favor._

Nasir stumbled as the haunting ghost of beloved voice trickled through his mind. Not yet. _Not yet, my heart, but soon._

He motioned for Sibyl to kneel with him and they laid Spartacus on the ground. Nasir took one last moment to remember that face. He’d once attempted to stand over him like this, with dagger in hand, to steal his life. Now they came to this, to Nasir pressing a sorrow-filled kiss to the bloodied forehead, trembling at the stone cold skin his lips touched. He sat back and unlatched the gold necklace he’d carried since Agron’s death. He opened Spartacus’ mouth and placed it inside. He did not know of Thracian gods; he prayed it would be enough for Charon. 

“Do you have any words?” Nasir asked.

Sibyl nodded. She cupped Spartacus cheek and whispered, “Gratitude.”

It took them but a moment to roll his body and neither could look to see if it crashed on rock, sand, or sea. It mattered not; Rome would _never_ have him.

Nasir hesitated there, at the edge, one foot almost ready to follow. He could not, _not yet_ , not when there were others hidden on the path to the north; not when he made vows to Agron as he choked in his last words in Nasir’s arms. He would do this for all of them; for Chadara and Lucius, Mira and Oenomaus, Donar, Saxa, Lugo, and Castus. In memory of Crixus and Naevia, of Gannicus and Laeta. He would do this for Agron, as he promised. He would do this for names he knew only from the others’ grief; for Duro, Sura, Barca, Pietros, Diona, Varro, and Aurelia. For all those who died when he still barely knew their names and all that came after. For all those still loyal to them, he would carry this on, this message, this final wish of Spartacus, whispered in Nasir’s ear as life left him.

 _Be free_.


End file.
